It took about 30 hours to get from Singapore to Morocco. We flew from Singapore to Istanbul, then over Bulgarian, Serbian and Croatian airspace to Milan, flying westward against the passage of time til we finally reached Casablanca. In Casablanca, we caught two trains to Marrakech, another 4 hours in total. Almost completely shattered and strung to our limits by then, but graced by the more than perfect timetable of planes, trains and automobiles, we ran from plane to ticket booth to train to ticket booth to train with ease, catching trains just as they were arriving into the station.
It´s an entirely different landscape. Different faces. Different smells. We welcome all of it but initially we tread lightly, keeping our voices down, our cameras off and a firm clutch on all of our things. The train to Marrakech was very crowded -- travel wary people pushing out as eager passengers hussle to get on. We´ve seen a few other backpackers but climbed onto a compartment where we are the only foreigners. A man motions to us to say that he has two seats available next to him. Indeed he did but one of them was occupied at the moment by his friend in the middle of a series of deep bows. He was situated at an odd angle in the seat, facing Mecca. We waited paitently until he was finished and took our seats, thankful to have them.
The view out the window is rather drab at first. Much of the land is barren as far as the eye can see, sometimes we´d come across a small town of boxy cinderblock homes that look unfinished and uninhabited. Well, except for the many satelite dishes on top of the houses faithfully pointed towards TV Mecca.
Hungry and exhausted, and getting impatient to get to our riad already. In the fading light, the landscape is brown brown brown except for some small patches of green who didn´t get the memo. Then in the setting sunlight, brown gives way to lilac, orange and khaki. It´s a strange limbo we´re in, hurtling through unfamiliar landscape with still at least an hour to go, unable to imagine what Marrakech is like except for the vague memory of a few internet photos of our accomodations. We´ve had many insanely long journeys and the feeling is similar: a displaced sensation of not knowing where we are, what day or time it is, being thrust through the windows of a parallel universe.
At the station, we negotiated a fair price for the ride to our riad (which we later found out was more than half what it should have cost). Val´s rusty high school French is really coming in handy since we set foot in Morocco. it´s either French or Arabic. Very little English is spoken here. Our taxi driver took us to the walls of the medina and stopped as the alleyways are too narrow for cars to enter. He got on the phone to someone, then pointed into the medina and said our riad was in there. We were sure we were about to be scammed. We´d just paid $5 for a pretty short cab ride and not even to the door of our riad. How were we supposed to find it inside the medina? There are no maps, or street signs. Just then, an old man in the traditional djellaba (a hooded cape-like garment that almost everyone wears) with a ferocious beard started circling the cab, summing us up through the windows. The cab driver was beginning to unload our things out of the trunk against our protests. The old man asked where we needed to go and we showed him the address of the riad. Silently, he began to lead the way into the centuries old medina, walls on either side so high you can´t see over them; alleys so narrow you can hold out both arms and touch the walls on either side. Some alleys were so dark and quiet we were a little concerned he wasn´t really leading us to our riad. And then, there it was. Riad Numero 10. A solid black wood door promising an exotic oasis within.
Janice, the French woman I´d spoken with to book the room opened the door and her big smile instantly melted away all our hesitations. Janice speaks no English but seems to understand Val´s French, so it´s all good. The inside of this riad is so so so amazing. Warm reds, pinks, oranges and yellows greet us, colors that have been missing from our color palette for the last couple days. We couldn´t wait to put our things down and snuggle into this place.
A sumptious meal had already been prepared for us by the gentle cook Raffida: a delicious pea soup, pastilla (a flaky pastry filled with chicken, ground almonds and showered with powdered sugar), a tomato and onion salad and for dessert, caramelized bananas. A bottle of wine and we felt so pampered, we sat there, catatonic from our journey, but eagerly soaking up the reality that we were finally in Morocco.
The next morning we are awakened at 5 am by the morning prayers. Hm, no one told us the speaker from the mosque was IN our bedroom. (It wasn´t but it sure sounded like it was.) These prayers sounded almost angry, with a terrible singing voice.
For photos of Marrakech, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594381039013/
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/
